Page 42 of The Night We Became Strangers

This was the first time I’d been to this building since the fire.

As I understood, it had taken two years to repair the damage.

Thus, the radio station had been closed during that entire time.

But the newspaper had sustained the majority of the loss.

The printing press had been severely affected and they’d had to use another newspaper’s press to print the daily news for nine months.

Even though they’d been competitors, the owner of El Día had been generous in solidarity with the Monteros.

If he only knew the kinds of people he’d been dealing with!

My legs stiffened as I entered the lobby.

I’d come here a few times as a young girl and had been fascinated by this world.

The smell of ink, the sound of the press printing thousands of copies of someone’s thoughts and words for others to read, images recorded forever, the making of history, and then, upstairs, the magic continued: My mother’s voice echoing throughout the entire country, my dad’s stories—those radionovelas that had introduced me to the adult world, with its passions and betrayals, bliss and sadness.

A place that held such precious memories had, in one day, turned into my parents’ mausoleum.

Their last hours were spent here.

“Hurry!” Germán was telling me, without an inkling of empathy for my memories, as he followed Tío Bolívar to the auditorium on the third floor. My younger cousin must have been excited for tonight’s event as he usually didn’t say a word to me.

In the hall, there were framed photos of actors reading from the scripts in the middle of a performance, of my father writing on his desk, and one closeup of my mother behind the microphone.

I stopped in front of it and ran my fingers over her pompadour.

I still remembered the smell of her rose perfume, her soft waves falling lightly over her shoulders, and how much I liked the blouse she was wearing in the picture, with its blue bow.

I couldn’t believe these photos had survived the fire. Or had my uncle brought them after?

“Valeria!” Joselito said, eagerly.

He was so young, he probably had no idea that the woman in the photo was my mother—or what had happened to her, since the subject of the fire was something my uncle’s family never spoke openly about.

The last photo in the hall showed my dad’s theater group posing for the camera.

There were two rows of actors; ten men and two women—my mother and Beatriz Lara.

My mother, no doubt, was the prettier of the two, as proven by the fact that three of the men in the picture had their heads turned and were staring at my mom as she smiled openly at the camera.

Beatriz was somewhat attractive, too, but in a meeker way.

She wore a light short-sleeve sweater with a handkerchief around her neck.

“Valeria!” my uncle and Germán called. “Come on!”

My uncle and cousin were holding the small auditorium’s double doors open for me.

I finally peeled my eyes off the photos and went inside the room.

The seats were almost as I remembered—red velvet, but maybe a shade darker than in my mind’s eye—and long, thick curtains flanked the stage where the musicians had already set up.

One microphone stood in the center of the stage, and another one hung from the ceiling, connected by a long cable to a radio transmitter in the back of the room.

An announcer sat behind the equipment, wearing a pair of earphones, ready to broadcast the performance throughout the airwaves.

We were the first ones in the auditorium. Tío Bolívar led us to the front row—the perks of being related to the owner.

Félix sat by my side but was much too shy to hold my hand. Germán was more animated than I’d ever seen him (according to Graciela, he had a big crush on Juliana Isabel), so he talked nonstop about the young actress and her movies.

“Did you know her father practically owns an island?”

I had little interest in the details of the woman’s life, but I was glad to have my cousin talking to us, as I didn’t think I could endure any more conversations about the weather with Félix.

Germán went on and on about Juliana Isabel, and once in a while, Félix would ask a question.

He confessed he knew nothing about Mexican entertainment.

He was so kind to everyone, it was hard not to like him.

I kept staring at the microphone in the center of the stage.

How many times had my parents stood behind it?

My father used to say there was an invisible power in the microphone and the “magic box” they called radio.

It could reach millions of people at once and they would believe anything that came from it without question.

The show started an hour later, and we had to sit through several pieces from the band before the main attraction.

When she finally came on stage, the whistles and applause behind me were deafening.

As usual, she looked stunning in a baby blue sheer halter top gown that reached her ankles, her maple hair in an updo. Her look was effortless and chic.

As we listened to her syrupy voice, Graciela encouraged me to take photos of the Mexican star, but just the sight of my camera in its bag made my blood boil all over again. What could I possibly achieve by taking photos of someone singing at a radio station? Where was the interest in that?

“We ought to go backstage and meet her,” Graciela said, starstruck. “If you get something good, you could sell it to the competition.”

“ What competition?”

El Día had shut down in 1953, and all the other publications in town were minor in comparison to Crónicas.

I didn’t take a single shot of Juliana Isabel.

In fact, I couldn’t wait for the evening to be over and go home.

Normally I would’ve enjoyed myself, but tonight I was in no mood for celebrations.

“You kids go on without me,” Tío Bolívar said when the show was over. “I still have things to do here.”

It wasn’t a long walk to my uncle’s house, but Félix offered to drive us there.

“It’s still early. You should go for ice cream,” my magnanimous uncle said.

“Oh yes, can we?” Joselito said, applauding.

“I think that’s a g-g-great idea,” Félix said.

With the enthusiasm of a clam being boiled for ceviche, I followed the group half a block before I realized that I’d left my shawl in the auditorium.

“Wait! I have to go back. I forgot something.” Before Félix would volunteer to come with me, I rushed back to the building.

My silk shawl was exactly where I’d left it.

I rushed back downstairs, taking a short break and deep breaths in the middle of the staircase.

As I stepped out of the foyer, something made me stop.

My uncle was helping Juliana Isabel—wrapped in a fox mink—into the passenger seat of his car.

He was holding her hand, smiling, and I’d never seen him looking so gallant.

Instinctually, I felt for my camera, but no, I couldn’t do that to my uncle. I had to draw the line somewhere.

I was probably reading too much into it, anyway.

Of course he would drive her back to the hotel.

She didn’t have a car. But she did have a security team, a makeup artist, a hairdresser.

They had all been at the airport surrounding her like a precious jewel.

I’d never known of my uncle—the station owner—driving any performer anywhere.

My father didn’t do it, either, as far as I knew.

Before the starlet got into the car, he swiftly kissed her hand and rushed around the hood, lightly tapping it, like a youngster on his first outing with a girl.

“Oh, here you are,” Félix said, startling me. “I could’ve brought the shawl for you.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

As I descended the four concrete steps outside the entrance, I caught a glimpse of Matías Montero standing across the street. He smiled at me, and it looked like he was about to cross.

I turned to Félix, grabbed him by the lapels, and planted a kiss on his mouth.